Prologue
Eastern Cordillera,
Fifty klicks northwest of Bogotá, Colombia,
Eighteen months ago…
* * *
The dull, yellowed light blinked out three seconds before the men upstairs started yelling.
Tierney O’Rourke jolted upright, the chain shackled around her right wrist rattling against the metal frame of the rusty cot for one, heart-stopping moment before she grabbed the length and lifted it clear of the edge. Darkness swallowed the damp, concrete cell, the heavy shadows a jarring change after weeks of having that single, bare bulb forever swaying overhead, spinning the room in nauseating circles.
The utter blackness accentuated the staccato rhythm of the rain hammering the roof, the latest in a string of storms that had rolled through the compound since she’d woken in the locked room a month ago. But there was something different about the way the thunder boomed across the sky, shaking the foundation with each rumbling beat. A charge in the air she hadn’t felt before. As if the mountain, itself, had declared war on the mercenaries holding her captive.
Somewhere, in the yard outside, the backup generator coughed then sputtered without catching, leaving a void in the air she knew wouldn’t go unanswered. It had choked and spat a dozen times over the past week when the unrelenting rain and wind had blown through the compound like an omen, but it had always kicked back on.
Until now.
Upstairs, one of the men barked out orders with the kind of tone that demanded action. Boots tapped overhead as the floorboards creaked, raining down dust motes that floated in the dim glow from the narrow window above her head. The one that had teased her with a hint of hope. Too small to escape from, but enough to see the road to freedom beyond the muddy grounds.
Tierney pushed to her feet, catching her weight on the wall when the room tilted, sliding left and right a few times before stabilizing slightly off kilter. Pain lanced through her stapled thigh, the metal pieces pulling on her flesh as she took a step, steadied herself.
The simple movement stole her breath, her broken ribs protesting every shallow inhale, as fire burned through her shoulder where shrapnel had torn it open the night everything had changed. But this time, she welcomed the agony — used the stabbing pain to sharpen her senses. Keep her conscious when the weakness creeping into her muscles demanded rest.
For thirty-six days, she’d burned through fever, fought the rot in her thigh, and shivered through the kind of cold that settled in her bones, never quite leaving. All while the men who’d annihilated her team in the ravine kept her breathing just long enough to heal.
A targeted hit. Just not for the reason she’d assumed.
Tierney had braced herself for torture the moment she’d woken in the cell. Interrogation. Pain with purpose. Questions asked until answers became irrelevant. But the medic had simply patched her up, then walked away. The wrongness of that had festered under her skin, until a few words bled through the floorboards…
Buyer.
Delivery.
Merchandise.
That’s when it had hit her. She hadn’t been spared because she was valuable to question. She’d been spared because she was valuable to sell. The realization had hollowed out part of her soul, leaving behind only rage and a ticking clock. By dawn, they’d move her. If she was still in this cell when the transport arrived, she’d vanish into a world far worse than this one.
Footsteps hammered outside the cellar stairs. The mountain had finally given her an opening, and she was about to drive a knife through it.
A flashlight beam cut under the door, the bright light making the top of the old wooden stairs glow a sickly gray. Metal scraped as a key hit the lock, the telltale screech of the hinges sounding above the needling rain. She had about five seconds between when the door swung open and the guard descended the stairs before he’d be at her door.
Tierney gathered the length of chain between her hands as she limped across the room, stepped into the blind spot beside the frame. It wasn’t much. Maybe a foot of space, but enough to hide her until she had a chance to strike.
She held her breath as she flattened her back against the damp stone. No doubt, the guy would expect the broken version of her. The one who’d barely moved. Not the woman who’d taken the guilt and the grief and burned it into blistering rage.
Who’d show him exactly why she was worth so much money in the first place.
The wooden steps groaned, a series of squeaks tracking the guard’s progression. Boots scuffed the floor outside the barred door, that flashlight beam bouncing off the metal, only a fraction making it past the billets.
He cursed, keys jingling just beyond the doorway before the lock turned over, everything settling with a final thunk. The door shook, the rusted hinges protesting as he opened it an inch at a time, one hand braced on the metal, the other tracing the room with the flashlight. The beam swept along the wall, hit the empty cot, then froze.
The guard grunted, swung the light to where the chain had been anchored to the metal leg bolt, inhaling as the length coiled along the floor, the links glinting amidst the surrounding darkness. He tensed, reached for his knife, as she lunged forward — the cold metal grasped between her hands.
Her leg dragged, buckling enough she tripped a step, smashed into his back as she fought to catch her balance. The creep stumbled forward, lost his grip on the flashlight and it tumbled to the floor, rolling several feet away, that beam tracing circles along the far wall.
Their combined weight drove them against the cot, the stench of smoke and cheap cologne overpowering the usual scent of wet cement and stale blood. He tried to shake her off, but she recovered enough to wrap the chain around his neck and pull.
